All The Wild Horses
by BlueBird Blues
Summary: All restless souls are given time to seek peace in the world of the living. Set sometime after The Great War in our present day , a soldier is allowed to return to the land he died protecting.


_**All restless souls, ones cruelly torn from their lives, are given time to seek peace in the world of the living. Set sometime after The Great War (In the present day to be exact), a soldier, a Captain, returns to the land he died for. **_

**Inspired by**_** All The Wild Horses **_**written and performed by Ray LaMontange. It is a beautiful song and helped me find the mood for the story**_**. **_

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><p><strong>All The Wild Horses<strong>

* * *

><p><em>Today is my first day. My first day to wander. <em>

_How many days had passed? Does it matter?_

_No. The world has changed. _

Streets are clouded with smoke and noise. Of my five senses, the first to return is sight. Blurry and dark, moments must pass before I can really, truly see. The cobblestone at my feet. My feet, holding my body upright. The second to return is touch. I can feel the weight of a heavy jacket on my shoulders, the tender touch of a scarf draped over my neck. The chill on my cheeks. Next comes smell. The smell of rain that has yet to fall, that hypnotic smell of the end of a dry cycle and the coming of something new. The last to come, the last I can remember, sound. The last sound I could hear, the shattering of a bullet, has haunted me for decades now. It is finally drowned away. A new sound, a welcomed sound, fills my ears.

Life.

Bustling, busy, but still fragile. Odd. I never used to take note of the fragility of life. I can hear chatter, whispers and laughter. I can hear footsteps, both quick and slow.

They told me that my first day would be the most important day. My first day is a cold one. Yes, a right English winter day. Not a single stroke of blue in the sky, just miles of gray. Gorgeous gray, one of many shades and many shapes. Smooth and heavy with movement and energy. It is a sky I remember. Bleak and barren, but never dead. No, the sky is very much alive, pulsing with breath.

I pull my coat tighter against my chest. It is a miracle, I admit, to feel something like the cold winter winds. There is a touch of pain that comes with that cold. A bite, sudden and sharp. To feel pain without fear. A familiar pain, a comforting pain. It's a bloody miracle.

I step out into the street. I had appeared in an alley way. Close by but just out of sight. That's what they told me. People move so quickly here. Push, mumble, tread, grumble. I stand in the sidewalk, unsure of what I should do. There is a street sign hanging from a light post just above me. I recognize the name of the street, but this space is entirely foreign to me. Buildings climb higher than I could have ever imagined. Lights of all colors, harsh and unforgiving, flash and mumble.

_Where am I really? Where should I be going? _

_I don't have much time. _

_What shall I do with my time? _

_They said I would know. I'm not quite sure I do. _

I start to scan the crowds. But why? I will not recognize any faces hear. I do not belong with this generation. I do not belong here at all. There is no one hear that can possibly assist me.

But wait.

There's a young girl standing by an open market, just across the street. She can see me. I know it. The others can't but she can. Other's nudge past me, some try to apologize, but when they turn to search for me, they cannot see me. She can. She's looking into my eyes and not through my chest.

She holds a cloth bag, greens and fruits so tightly packed they threaten to spill out of it. My vision, temporarily renewed, is excellent. I can make out the stitching in her tweed coat. Her eyes are grey, just like the sky. She crosses the street. Her eyes never leave me. She's determined, unaware of the cars that squeal to a stop. Monstrous cars, reminiscent of hulking metallic insects. What has the world become. So much noise, so much chatter.

She's made it across though. She steps onto the sidewalk, her bag hanging precariously from her fingers. Her body is small, thin and short. Flurries of blonde curls, peek out from under a stitched knit cap. Without a smile or a nod she simply says,

_Welcome back. _

So she knows. They never said that there would be people to help me. For a fleeting second I wonder I she is like me. It pains me to think such a thing. She is so young, not a day over twenty I guess. For such a young little thing to have already passed...It was unjust. It was unfair. But I realize she could not be like me. The cars stopped. People glared. She was seen by others. She was not like me.

"_Can you help me?"_ It's all I can say, for I know not what to do.

"_I'm looking for a comrade…a friend."_ What can I do? My time is limited. They kept telling me that. This time is a gift, for your life was unfairly ended and you are allowed time.

The girl looked around, her eyes trained to the sky. Then she nodded and, taking my hand, began to walk down the sidewalk.

"Well," she says. "Let's see what we can do."

* * *

><p>Charlotte was no stranger to ghosts.<p>

She met her first ghost when she was only 2 years old. An orange cat, looking to say one last goodbye to the mate he had left behind.

They were always searching. The ghosts. Looking for a someone or a something that had been left behind. They always had business left undone. It seemed the fates were not as unforgiving as some people believed them to be.

Charlotte believed she was not alone. She could only imagine that there were many others like her. People who were able to see the spirits as they returned. Able to speak with them and still go unnoticed. She chose never to tell anyone about the ghosts she could speak to. It was none of their business really. It was none of her business either. But someone had to help them.

She never feared them. There was nothing frightening about them. The ones that returned, were deserving of their time. They were often confused, discombobulated. They could not recognize the world they had left behind.

Charlotte was happy to help. She was happy to guide them. Though she could not succeed every time, she believed her track record was one to be envied.

As she led the man towards her apartment, she said nothing. After years of conversing with spirits she had learned several things.

Firstly, words were sacred. They were not to be wasted. Talk was cheap. Spirits were wobbly, weak creatures. Death and the opportunity to live for even a second longer was a terrible weight on the soul. Ghosts were often quiet, confused, and prone to spurs of great sadness.

Secondly, it wasn't in good fashion to inquire as to the death that had befallen spirits. Their deaths were gruesome ones. Unjust ones. They were not to be spoken about. Some spirits had no knowledge of how their deaths came to be. Some knew all too well.

Thirdly, spirits were melancholy creatures. Even at their happiest they never smiled. Some were terribly broken, falling apart at the seams. Last May, she had helped a man whose eyes never stopped leaking tears. The entire time she was with him, tears pouring from his eyes. And he never knew it. Although he could feel, his tears were a mystery to him.

_This one seems rather well actually. _Charlotte thought, stealing a look at the man.

He was quite handsome. Like most of the men she met, he was clad in a long trench coat. He wore a hat as well. It looked to be of an army make. If winter was upon them, they wore scarves and gloves. His hair was cut and trimmed, in a style that revealed his era.

In lieu of her ability, Charlotte had been drawn into history from a very young age. All of the spirits were from a time long passed. So she dedicated herself to the past. Living in the lives of others. She was a student now, with plans on teaching heavy in her mind. But for now she was sponge. Drinking it all in.

This man was obviously from the early days of the last century. He was tall, thin, and carried himself with an air of diligence. His eyes were soft, liquid like honey. He seemed distressed, but he was trying to hide it. And doing a fine job of it.

"We're here." She said, in a whisper. She always tried to speak low; she never wanted to alarm them.

* * *

><p>Her residence is small and cramped. But the feeling and smell of a home well lived in is a comfort to me. There is a small enclave, a booth set against a large window. She directs me towards it and offers me a seat.<p>

"You must be tired." She saya. And she was right. I was tired. Fatigued. As if I had been running for quiet sometime. My bones ached, my muscles drummed. I was very tired. But I had not the time for sleep.

I slide into the booth. At five stories high, I can see the street below me. People walking, cars racing past.

She returns minutes later, balancing two steaming cups in her fists. Setting them down on the table she slides in across from me. She gestures to her right, towards the window.

"I have sugar and I can get cream if you prefer…"

I look questioningly at the cup.

Tea. It's amber brown color was unmistakable.

I can eat? I can drink? They never told me that…

She grips her own mug, one made of clay and painted a dark navy color. She holds it her hands like it is a delicate flower.

She looks at me and understands. "It's alright. Go ahead."

Her voice is soothing, quiet and soft. It relaxes me. If only my heart could resume it's beating.

Tenderly, and with great care, I lift my hand towards the mug. The shock of heat hits my palm and I shudder under its intensity.

God, it's wonderfully warm. Taking the cup in my hands, I lift it up. Sucking in the steam, I can smell the tea leaves. More than that though. I can smell the dirt they sat in waiting to be picked, the rain that helped in their growth, the hands that helped package them. I can smell vanilla, spices, and boiling water. Did boiling water have a smell before?

Tipping the cup to my lips, I let the liquid flow into my mouth. The taste of it nearly melts my bones. It is slick and hot, coating my teeth and tongue. The tea spills down my throat, warming my ice cold core. Something comes alive inside me, spreading through me. From my forehead to my fingertips, to my feet.

Warmth, breath, life.

I finish the contents in three long gulps. And I am desperate for more. The girl is there, with a steaming pot, ready to satisfy my growing need. She fills my mug again, to the very brim.

I am sure to thank her. It is only a cup of tea, I know. But I am sure to thank her.

* * *

><p>"Can I ask you your name?" Charlotte asks, slowly. Some spirits were not keen to divulge anything to her. They merely asked questions and went on their way. From past experience, she knew that spirits loved tea. She tried to offer them a cup if possible.<p>

The man clung to his mug. He glanced out the window, eyes fixed to the sky. Charlotte had learned to ignore the pain in their eyes. It was too deep and too consuming. But she couldn't help but quiver under its power. He looked so sad, so fearful.

_Something about this one. _She thought. _Something about him…_

"My name is James." He thought about giving her is last name. But what good would it do her?

"Charlotte." She said, she reached over the table and offered him her hand. He looked at it and then took it up in his, shaking it.

* * *

><p>"Charlotte." I repeat. The name fits her. The touch of her hand is almost as overwhelming as the taste and the feel of the tea. I can feel the blood rushing through her veins. Her heart pumping. The power of it is staggering. Life. Fragile as an autumn leaf. Strong as a raging hurricane.<p>

"Is he like you?" she asks gently. "Your comrade?"

He must be. I think to myself. But is he even here? I have no way of knowing for certain. But I just believe it. He's here. Walking the earth. Somewhere.

* * *

><p>The major stands on the hillside.<p>

Alone.

Free.

In a sense.

He was free to mourn and rage and relive his great mistake. The mistake that had cost the lives of many. His men. His men and their horses.

Today was his last day. One year. He had spent his allotted time counting and grieving. He did not seek to find others or search for help, even though it had been offered to him. He did not wish for pity or for understanding. He wished to spend his time repenting like a proper soldier should.

So he came to his last day.

And knew of no better way than to end it all here. Where it all began.

* * *

><p>"I can't promise that we will find him." Charlotte said. It is the first thing she has said since we left her apartment and boarded this train. Almost three hours of silence.<p>

I can only nod. I understand. My chances are slim. I understand.

I do not approve of the speed of this train. We are flying past the world at an unnatural speed. How can the countryside, the grasses and the trees, be appreciated during a flight like this? The lights in this train or intrusive, too bright for my eyes.

_This world has changed. _

_Always changing. _

Charlotte is a bright young thing. I am thankful that she found me. She believes that she knows where my comrade could be. I can only hope that she is correct. For even though I know that my dear friend is here, I fear that his time is coming to a close. I fear that I will not be able find him before he is ripped from the world once more. It is a fear that rocks my core. It is a fear I cannot face just yet.

* * *

><p>We leave the train. It is a hurried affair. All rush and hustle. Pushing and shoving. What an impersonal world. People never seem to look each other the eye. As if they are scared. Fearful of what could happen with they were to make contact with another soul. Was this how it was then? I can't seem to remember anymore. How people like Charlotte manage in such a world…<p>

Here the air feels cleaner. This landscape is more familiar to me. Green overpowers all. The scene and the senses. As we sat on the train, a misty rain fell over New Old England. The graveled ground is slick with water. There is a feeling of thunder, heavy and eerie. We are far from the city now, far from the noise and lights. The sky is darker here; rolling clouds shake with the coming of a storm. I worry that my time is short.

Charlotte leads the way, down the steps, away from the station. We walk along a dirt road, her boots squish and squash in the mud. In a moment, she loses her footing in the uneven terrain. Before she can fall I manage to catch her up, helping her back to her feet. It is such a small, meaningless joy. Being able to catch her, to touch her, to lift her, being of some use. It is a new release. All the time I spent with nothing and no one. Finally there is something and someone.

We continue on the road, Charlotte accessing a piece of technology I cannot and choose not to understand. After several long minutes, she stops in her tracks.

"Here." With her eyes still trained on her phone, she points towards a small opening in a short stone wall. The way her jacket coat rides up to her fingers, reminds me of a small child. She is so young, she has so much life left in her.

I follow her finger. Past the wall lies a hill. We step off of the road and onto a narrow path.

I stop when I realize that it is me who leads the way. But how can I? I know not where I am headed.

Charlotte is resting on the wall. She has hoisted herself onto its slick edge; her legs dangle over the said, she is too short to touch the floor.

For the first time she offers me a smile. It is one of encouragement.

"Go on. If you're lucky, he'll be there."

It is a reminder. This is journey is not her journey. This time is not her time. It belongs to me. And it is fading.

I pivot and continue up the path, up the hill. Knowing not what I will find.

* * *

><p><em>How many men had it been? <em>

_How many lives were lost that day?_

_Fathers and Sons. Brothers and Lovers. _

_All dead. All gone. _

The major was going to leave in the same way he had come. Guilt ridden, his soul as black as ash.

He had spent his time wisely. Listening and guiding the lost. Searching for the graves of the fallen and paying his respects.

But it was not enough to alit his soul. His lungs were full of water, his bones were cracked and broken, his blood was drained, his mind was a shadow of what it once was.

And it was his last day.

He chose to spend it here. In the fields.

He stood just outside the shelter of a large tree. He could not feel the rain, only the chill it left behind.

But he would stay here. Until it was his time to go.

_Did I do enough? Have my sins been forgotten? Was there something or someone I missed?_

_How could he know? _

His body was raked with shivers. Was this fear? He thought he knew fear. But in his time, he had come to learn that he knew nothing. Not a damned thing.

Shutting his eyes, he focused on breathing. Even though it served no purpose, going through the motions of living was the last comfort he had.

_Breath in. Breath out. Breath in. Breath out. Breath in…_

_And die. _

"Jamie."

_Breath out. _

Were they calling him back? No. He recognized that voice. He had spent decades trying to remember what the last words that voice had ever spoken.

Turning, Major Jamie Stewart was beside himself with grief. Could be that in his last moments he mind would play cruel tricks on him? How cruel.

But he was there. No tricks.

"Captain Nicholls." Jamie said in disbelief.

The captain, removing his hat, laughed. It was sad and grim and laced with tears, but it was a laugh none the less.

He smiled, sadly. "Goddammit, Jim. After all this time, after what we've seen…And you stick to proper manners."

The major balked. Someone had called for him twice. Said his name.

"Jim."

Stumbling forward, Jamie and Jim met in a tight embrace. They would have squeezed the life out of each other had they had any.

Jamie, slapping his friends back with all the force he could muster, cursed himself as a wave of warm tears brimmed in his hollow eyes.

"Jim. God man, it is…good to see you."

Captain Nicholls released the breath he had been scared to let go of. "More than good."

Jamie, knowing his time was short, pulled away.

"Jim," He said, filled with fear once more. "Can you…Can you ever forgive me?"

The Captain looked upon his friend, his comrade, his fellow man. Shame and pain radiated from him like a poison. He couldn't imagine, walking this earth carrying such a weight.

Placing his hand comfortingly on the major's chest, Jim said simply:

"My friend, there is nothing to forgive."

The major felt a great pressure fall away. He stood taller, he felt free.

A wave of tear fell to his cheeks. He was free.

**_There is nothing to forgive. _**

Turning away, so as not to reveal his weakness, the major looked out into the field. Far down the wide stretch of hill there, in the tall grass, ran three horses.

They were galloping through the rain soaked grass, their cries of joy at the bounty of the storm echoing over the plain.

Captain Nicholl's turned his eyes to the animals, too.

The men stood in silence, watching them creatures run back and forth. Free.

"Can you see them?" The major asked, hoping that this was not another vision sent to trick his meager mind.

The captain lay a comforting hand on his friends shoulder. "I can."

The major, realizing for the first time, that he was free to speak his mind. He was free. No longer a prisoner.

"I keep thinking, looking back." He said.

As he spoke a young foal went running after his mother. The third horse was a beauty. As black and as daunting as his Topthorn had been.

"How could we, Jim? Dragging those creatures into our grisly business."

"We should have let them be." The captain agreed. "But we were fools then."

The major nodded. "Still are, I gather."

"Today's my last day," the major said. "I feel it ending."

"Today is my first."

"Ah," The major said, tearing his eyes away from the grand scene on the field.

"Then you should be off. You have much to do."

"Do I?" Captain Nicholls said.

The major nodded. "You will know. When the time comes. You found me, didn't you?"

The captain looked bashful. "I had help."

"You'll do fine."

"So will you, Jamie."

Grasping each others hand the men, comrades in war, said their last goodbye.

And so the major's time ended.

And so the captain's time began.

* * *

><p>Charlotte sat on the edge on the stone wall, rocking her legs up and down.<p>

_He must be there. _She thought. _He's been a while…_

She stared down at her skirt, playing with a piece of loose thread.

_I hope he's there. _

Soon, she could make out the stomping of boots against the drying dust trail.

Looking up, she saw James walking back down the trail. He came to stand by her side and she could see tears in his wide blue eyes.

"You found him." She said. It wasn't a question.

"I found him." James said.

"I'm glad." Charlotte said.

No other words were exchanged. They walked side by side, back to the station.

A scratchy voice over an aging intercom alerted Charlotte that her train was moving into the station.

She turned to the spirit. This was the part she hated. But it always came.

"You will be taking a different train, then?" She asked, already knowing the answer.

James nodded his head.

* * *

><p>"Yes."<p>

If she is saddened by my answer she hides it well. Charlotte is a sweet girl, a gentle girl. I am lucky to have found her.

She takes my hands in hers. They are warm, pulsing with life. Holding them she whispers. "May you rest in peace. James."

Her words, seem like some sweet blessing. I embrace her, feeling her heart, her breath, her care and love. She seems surprise by this, but I cannot help myself. I am indebted to her. Without her, Jamie would have left alone.

"On my honor. I am forever grateful." I say, though I know it is not enough. There will never be enough.

I watch as she boards her train. She stands by the door as it shuts and watches me as it pulls away. Slowly at first, but then faster than I can imagine. I watch as it disappears over the horizon.

Rain begins to fall from the sky once more. The sound of it is as loud as church bells.

_Church bells._

Suddenly I know, what it is I must do next.

My time is short. There is much I must do.

Before I can be released.

* * *

><p>Thank you for reading. I would love to hear feedback. This was something that flew into my head and I had to get it out so I could continue on with other things.<p>

I really loved the friendship between the two characters and I just wished they had some sort of closure, so I wrote it myself.

BB


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